


I’d Wait Forever

by MollyMack



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyMack/pseuds/MollyMack
Summary: What if Sybil was the one who had to wait?  Lady Sybil Crawley is different from the rest of her aristocratic family, and the only real friend she has is the family chauffeur, who understands her need for a different life.  Or does he?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always loved the song “I Won’t Give Up”, by Jason Mraz, and I think it fits this couple rather perfectly, so I decided to begin each chapter with a few lines from the song.

_When I look into your eyes_  
_It’s like watching the night sky_  
 _Or a beautiful sunrise_  
 _Well there’s so much they hold_.

March, 1912

He was in trouble.

Tom Branson had never had much trouble with women, his lifestyle did not allow for the time to get into that sort of difficulty. He worked, he slept, he sent his paycheck home to his family. That was it. His life under a microscope would hardly have merited a second look by a scientist. Women, and woman trouble, was for those who could afford it. Not for a poor Irishman with little formal education and fewer prospects. Sometimes he reflected on what could have been had his father not died so young, forcing him to leave school and find work, but then he would shrug and move on. It was what it was, and his nature did not allow for melancholy or self-pity.

It wasn’t that he did not attract the notice of women. Oh, no, that was definitely not the problem. In his last job, the mistress had made no secret of the fact that she found him attractive, that she might have welcomed a liaison with her young chauffeur. It was most likely the reason she had hired him.

She was twenty years his senior, a still attractive woman for whom life had provided all the material comforts and none of the excitement and romance found in the novels with which she wiled away her existence. She had given him the looks collected from those novels, the sultry, practiced sidelong seductive glances that had always worked for the heroines she aspired to emulate.

She had attempted to begin flirtatious conversations while he drove her to balls and formal dinners, something they both knew to be prohibited in their world. Nothing worked; he knew his place and in any case was not tempted. Lately she had begun to threaten him delicately, asking him about his family, reminding him that she could change his life in a moment if she did not get what she wanted. It was time to move on.

And now he found himself at Downton Abbey, out of the frying pan and right into the inferno. Why, again, he asked himself, had he thought it wise to join the staff of the most colossal English manor he had ever seen? He was pretty certain that his reasoning had been sound at the time, and the job _was_ much better, that he could not deny. Lord Grantham was a decent employer, as far as English lords went…better than decent in some ways.

On his first day he had been offered the use of the earl’s enormous library as long as he signed the ledger as did everyone else, even the family. The garage held three magnificent cars, one of them the latest Renault; he itched to get it out on the road and see if he could get the darling up to thirty kilometers per hour—maybe more? The best part was the cottage. His own space right next to the garage, with a tiny bedroom, a stove, a barely used desk, and a bookshelf.

The staff was huge…he supposed that a place this size needed the myriad maids, footmen, and cook’s helpers…and most seemed friendly. The butler was the best of his sort he had come across; you always knew where you stood with Carson. Mrs. Hughes was severe but kind, and he sensed a genuine approval of the new chauffeur under her tough exterior. The housemaid Anna was a sweetheart, in love with Lord Grantham’s valet but hiding some personal sorrow. He had learned early that the secret to eating well was to butter up the cook, and so Mrs Patmore saved the best of the servants’ fare for him.

His efforts to be friendly with his new colleagues hit a brick wall with O’Brien, Lady Grantham’s maid, and with Thomas Barrow the under butler, however. Those two seemed to be members of a secret society bent on the destruction of humankind, and woe to the man who came up against them. He was determined not to be that man.

Lord and Lady Grantham had three daughters. Lady Mary, the oldest and self-appointed heir to the kingdom, barely noticed his existence as she was driven to Ripon or to York, her fine nose slightly elevated, and that was fine with him. Lady Edith, the middle daughter, seemed to be afraid of her older sister and at war with her at the same time, using whining as her weapon and meekness as her defense. To them, he was merely a fixture. For all they knew the motor drove itself, and they would have been shocked to learn that it had a driver who had a voice, a brain, opinions. And then there was the youngest, Lady Sybil…

Lady Sybil simply refused to be put into a category. She was different from the others, that was for sure. All of the sisters were attractive; Lady Mary would be considerexd beautiful by her posh society friends, and Lady Edith hid a pretty face behind her sour expression. But Lady Sybil was lovely from the inside out. She had long dark hair that tended to escape its pins and curl around her expressive face with its huge blue eyes in which a man could get lost, and a mouth that…well, never mind.

Her appeal went beyond her looks. She had a sharp mind, she thought about things, she spoke to him. She was infinitely curious. She asked him questions and listened to his answers. She wanted to be useful, believed in women’s rights and in the idea of real work. And she was so very young, barely sixteen. She was a child, he told himself, a child finding herself in the world in which she was destined to exist, a world of which he had absolutely no knowledge and even less interest. A baby. He was mesmerizedl

Oh, yes, Tom Branson was in trouble. He would have to be careful, remember his place. She had no idea about the feelings she stirred in him; she could never know.

~~~~~~~~~~

She was in love.

Lady Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, was in love at the age of sixteen. It was a delicious feeling, an irresistible waremth that enveloped her like a blanket every time she was in his presence. He was the only man who cared what she thought; the only man who valued her as a person and understood her deepest desires, the only man who mattered. To be honest, he was the only man besides Cousin Matthew that she really knew.

She would meet others, of course. Her season was two years away; she would dance with lords and dukes, sons of whosits and cousins of whatsits, all perfectly charming and some perhaps even nice, but none of them _him_. None of them would care about the vote for women, or her desire to _do_ something with her life someday. She looked upon the season as a necessary rite of passage to be gotten through, a ridiculous ritual that she might somewhat enjoy and then put away forever. She would not meet anyone who matched him. He was all she wanted, all she would ever need, and even more provocative because she could never have him.

He was her family’s chauffeur, a member of the staff, off limits. A servant was not permitted even to maintain eye contact with a daughter of the aristocracy. But Branson was not like other servants. Right from the beginning he had seemed to understand her need for more than her proper, rigid, and rather stifling upbringing provided. He _knew_ things, cared passionately about the country of his birth, and seemed relieved to be free to speak about his own dreams for the future and privileged to listen to hers.

While properly deferential when others were about, it was different when they were alone in the motor. He challenged her, shared his opinions and his ambitions, his hopes for his native Ireland. Once he had told her, “I won’t always be a chauffeur,” and when he said it with such determination, she believed him. He argued with her, supported her passion for women’s rights, and comforted her when her family ignored and dismissed her ideas as childish and absurd.

There came a day, as she leaned forward chin in hand, listening to his lovely Irish lilt while admiring his handsome, animated face with its dimpled smile and sparkling blue eyes, that she realized he was more than a companion…he was her best friend, and he had no idea. He could never know.


	2. Chapter 2

_And when you’re needing your space_  
_To do some navigating_  
_I’ll be here patiently waiting  
To see what you find_

June, 1914

“Branson?”

Tom Branson smiled. Two years had passed since he’d come to Downton, and to all outward appearances nothing had changed. He drocve aristocrats around, polished motor cars, sent his pay home to Ireland, and avoided Barrow and O’Brien whenever possible. He was teaching Lady Edith to drive, he had worked his way through most of the history books in Lord Grantham’s library, and he had begun to pen letters to the editors of some of the liberal papers in Dublin.

Many of his efforts had been well-received, coming from the viewpoint of an Irish citizen abroad, one with unique experience in service to the English peerage. “Well, I won’t be a chauffeur forever,” he reminded himself, and some days he actually believed it.

He had not foreseen, however, the isolation he would experience as an Irishman in rural England. That some of it was his own fault was not disregarded in his self reckonong during the long nights alone in his cottage. The absolute worst place for an Irish republican was the bosom of the British aristocracy; he found himself incapable of keeping his opinions to himself when he sat in the servants’ hall and listened to Carson wax poetic on the godliness of their employers.

While some, like O’Brien and Barrow, sneered at his passionate defense of women and the poor, others thought him eccentric but harmless, and a few admired his spirit. Still, he had little in common with any of them, and consequently took most of his meals in the cottage. He spent his days in silence, an unnoticed extension of the cars he drove, and his nights with his books and papers, writing.

And the closest thing he had to a real friend was the youngest daughter of his employer. Hardly a day passed without her showing up in the garage, ostensibly to order the motor but usually leaving a good while later having forgotten to do so. He had given her pamphlets about women and the vote, and then had suggested books from her father’s library.

Recently they had begun a sort of game—he would read a book, usually on history or politics, and she would check the ledger and sign out the same book. Or she would select a book—usually a romance, and he would sign it out after her. He loved challenging her to read William Patrick Ryan; she paid him back with Jane Austin. And they talked.

They talked for hours. He loved the sound of her husky voice, the way she waved her hands in order to press home her point, her eagerness to know…everything. Two weeks ago he had taken her to a rally for women’s rights in Ripon, and had found difficulty in extricating her when tempers began to rise and the crowd became menacing.

She’d chattered like a magpie all the way home, indignant that the politicians they’d heard seemed bent on resisting changes that she saw as inevitable, and he was sure that she would feel compelled to bring up what she had heard at the rally during dinner that night. He was also pretty sure that no one would listen. They never listened. It was the reason she sought him out so frequently, the reason the garage had become her secret escape.

“Branson?”

“Yes, m’lady?”

“I need a ride into Ripon tomorrow; I have a charity meeting, and I simply must be there.”

“Certainly, m’lady. But, is your father aware of this? I seem to remember that there was a bit of a brouhaha the last time I took you to Ripon.”

“Oh, Branson, would I ask you to take me anywhere if Papa was against it? Don’t be silly!”

He slanted a look at her. “Must I answer that, m’lady?”

As the motor wound through the streets of Ripon, Tom noticed the crowds heading toward the government buildings, and wondered. Why so many on the street? A cold wave of apprehension began to build in him. The instincts sharpened on the streets of Dublin in his youth were screaming that something was wrong here. There was a sense of purpose in the crowd, a feeling of anticipation and inpending frenzy.

“Stop here!” Sybil shouted suddenly. Branson was confused. “But I thought—”

She jumped from the back of the motor, her eyes sparkling. “You don’t think I’m going to miss my very first by-election, do you?”  
  
Oh, Lord, the count! He’d forgotten all about it. That was the reason for the surging crowds, the disquiet in the street.

“I don’t think his lordship would approve!” he countered desperately.

She ignored him and began to walk away.

“I have to park the car! Don’t move, stay where you are!”

Sybil turned, backing away as she laughed at him. “Really, Branson, I thought I gave the orders!”

And she disappeared into the crowd.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tom Branson was shaking. Waves of fury, fear and self-loathing swept through him like a storm over the Irish Sea, buffeting his mind and leaving him weak and sick. How could he have let this happen? Why had he not stopped her? What the hell had she been thinking? And above all, would she be all right? He had known that there would be trouble when he saw the gang of toughs striding into the crowd at the count. She was an innocent, and she stood out like a diamond in the sand. A perfect target—everything they hated, the symbol of all that was wrong in their miserable lives.

And she had refused to move! Had stood there like a damn rock, arguing with him! Then her cousin Matthew had spotted them on his way home from his law office and entered the fray. Although he liked Mr. Matthew and was at first relieved to have another man for support, things had deteriorated with his arrival. Attempting to stand up to the bullies, Matthew had made the situation worse, and Branson could only watch helplessly, his arms pinned back by two of the thugs, as Sybil was pushed onto the corner of a wooden cart and thrown to the ground to lie unconscious and bleeding.

The rest of the evening was a blur. Carrying Sybil’s limp body to Matthew’s house, fetching Lady Mary from Downton, and waiting, waiting. Would Lady Mary remember her promise to tell him how Sybil was getting on? Pacing helplessly outside the Abbey, he realized that his heart had crossed a barrier today, and he knew that somehow he had to get it back. Even if they let him keep his job after this, Lady Sybil Crawley and the family’s chauffeur could no longer be as close as before. His friendship had cost her too much…this had to stop.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sybil lay in bed, head and heart aching. How could she have been so stupid? What if she had cost Branson his job with her stubbornness? Would he ever forgive her for lying to him? She remembered being carried to safety in his strong arms, how she had wanted to rmain there forever. Never at any point during the violence at the count had she been afraid, because he was there. He would keep her safe, take care of any threats or danger.

God! What an idiot she was. Never once had she thought of anyone but herself; she wanted to go to the count, so it would happn. She couldn’t get permission, so she lied. She had acted just as someone of her station _would_ do, using Branson and throwing away his rights, his feelings, and perhaps even his position. Sybil knew that he was supporting his sisters, sending home most of his pay so that they might have the chance to go to school as he had not, but did that matter to the almighty Lady Sybil? No, rights for nameless women meant more to her than those of the one person she held closest to her heart.

Sybil sat up suddenly and then clutched her head as a military band paraded through it. Served her right, she groaned. Holding her head carefully in case it was thinking of falling off, she began to plan. She would fix this, she thought. She had been selfish and utterly thoughtless, had behaved with total disregard of the possible cost to the man she loved above all else. This had to stop.


	3. Chapter 3

_Cause even the stars they burn_  
_Some even fall to the earth_  
_We’ve got a lot to learn_  
_God knows we’re worth it_

June, 1914

Sybil giggled as she approached the garage. She had rehearsed her apology long into the night, and her heart lifted at the vision conjured by her inagination, the light in his gorgeous blue eyes and quirk of his smile. He would forgive her, of course. In the bright light of a beautiful Yorkshire morning the self-disgust of the night before had dissipated, replaced by a new feeling of resolve.

She knew that he would not hold it against her that she had lied about the count—not for long, anyway. Oh, he would probably give her a bit of a lecture, but surely he would excuse her awful behavior when he saw just how remorseful she was. Remorseful, regretful, and determined to be less selfish in the future.

As she neared the open door, her footsteps slowed; the giggle dissolving in her throat. She could hear him moving about inside, and suddenly she was unaccountably seized by nervousness. She moved quietly into the space and stood watching him. His back to her, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Branson was polishing one of the motors with a fervor that seemed uncalled for, as the surface already gleamed like silver. She took a moment to admire his muscular forearms, and sighed. He was beautiful.

He must have heard the small exhalation of breath, for he stopped and stood motionless, back still turned and muscles suddenly rigid. Slowly, he turned around and looked at her.

“Milady?”

“Branson, I—”

“I hope you’re feeling better,” he said neutrally. “Lady Mary told me that you were doing well”

So formal—so cold.

“Branson, I wanted to apologiz for lying to you about the count,” she began rather breathlessly. “I don’t know why…I didn’t think…it was unforgivable and thoughtless, and I could have cost you your place. I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s all right, milady. Everything turned out for the best.”

What was wrong with him?, she thought in sudden uneasiness. Why wasn’t he smiling? He sounded so tired, so _defeated_.

“Branson—”

“Milady,” he broke in, “I think it would be better if you did not come to the garage anymore.” He spoke quickly, looking down as if ashamed to meet her eyes. “It’s just—it just isn’t appropriate.”

Sybil stood as if paralyzed, frozen with shock. This was not what she had expected, not at all. He was behaving like a stranger…like a _servant_ …looking steadfastly at the floor of the garage.

An endless moment passed. The silence was deafening—the creak of wood, chittering of small insects, the sighing of the soft breeze outside the garage rising into a cacophony in her mind, drowning out everything but his words.

Finally, unable to speak over the lump in her throat, she summoned a whisper. “So…you do not want my friendship anymore?”

“Oh, milady, of course I want your friendship!” He looked up then, sorrow etched on his beloved features. “It just won’t work, you and I being sociable, don’t you see? We’re too far apart, too different; it can only end badly! It almost did!”

“NO!” she shouted, and then “no,” more quietly. “I don’t see. I won’t accept this. I can’t lose you!”

“Milady, I-”

“No!” she cried again, holding up her hand to stop him. “What _you_ don’t see, Branson—Tom—is that I love you! I am _in_ love with you. I have been in love with you for a long, long time, and I want to spend my life with you!” The words poured out of her as if a cork had finally burst free, allowing the emotions she had kept locked up for so long to explode from their prison. “I don’t care about class, about our differences. You know I hate all of that nonsense. I only know that I would give up _everything_ to be with you. If you will only allow me, I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness!”

The torrent of words stopped, finally. She had never meant to say these things, ever, but her heart would not be denied and now all she could do was wait…and hope.

Banson was staring at her in shock. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. All sound in the garage was gone, replaced with an eerie stillness that reached out and filled the abyss between them. It grew and spread and swept everything else away, until it filled her heart with its blackness.

“All right, I’ll go,” she said, tonelessly. “I’ll stay away, and I won’t bother you again. But don’t think for a moment that I’ll go back to my safe, antiseptic world and have tea parties and do needlework, because I won’t! I want to do a real job; real work. And I will. I’ll find what I’m cut out to do, and I’ll make a difference!” The words were said with a ferocity at odds with her deceptively calm demeanor, and then she turned and walked to the doorway, spinning back around at the last second. Her face was a mask of cold marble. “And don’t worry about what I said. I’ll get over it.” And she was gone.

Tom Branson sat on a bench inside the garage, his head in his hands. What had just happened? How could he not have known what she felt for him? The signs were all there, weren’t they? Her constant requests for the motor to take her to suspiciously inconsequential destinations in places far away from Downton, her questions about his family and his life in Ireland, her daily trips to the garage. But he had been certain that she was just lonely, as he was, and he had been proud that she had wanted his friendship. When had that changed?

He knew when things had changed for him, as he knew that he had done the right thing in allowing her to walk away. His reasons for ending their attachment were still valid, maybe even more so. They could never work as a couple, never be together, not in this world.

So why did he feel so wretched, so contemptible, so…happy?

Sybil made it to the wall outside the garage before collapsing against it. The mask of bravado she had put on in front of him, a legacy of her upbringing, drained out of her and left her boneless with grief. She had lost her best friend, her confidant, her love. She laughed bitterly at herself. Her love? It had all been in her own mind. What was she to do now?

She wanted to go back and beg, to promise anything if he would only reconsider, but she knew it would do no good. He was not hers, and he never would be. This lovely dream that she had nurtured for two years, this imaginary world she had created, was finished.

She pushed herself off the wall, her body wracked with the sobs she tried unsuccessfully to suppress, and stumbled over to the servants’ entrance. The staff was used to her, and anyway breakfast was over; no one would see her if she went in this way.

But someone had seen. O’Brien stepped out of the shadows in the courtyard, mulling over what she had just witnessed as the smoke from her cigarette seeped between her pursed lips. Well, well, well…Lady Sybil coming from the garage, crying as though someone had…had what? Her vivid imagination supplied all the salacious details. She had always known that the chauffeur was too cocky for his own good, and now he had obviously taken advantage of his lordship’s youngest daughter. Maybe even ruined her! Well, she thought piously, it was her duty to protect her ladyship’s family, wasn’t it?

~~~~~~~~~~

For the remainder of the day Branson was unable to concentrate. In a daze, he drove Lady Grantham to a charity meeting in Ripon, collected Mrs. Crawley and Mr. Matthew for dinner, drove the dowager home. He did not see Sybil, not did he expect to. His day—no, his life—was out of sync. He avoided the staff and took dinner in his cottage, and all the time he was thinking… _Sybil_.

She loved him! She wanted to spend her life with him! And he had turned her away. He had broken her heart…and suddenly it flashed home to him that in doing so he had broken his own. Too late, he realized that everything she had said applied to him, too. He was in love with her. Tom Branson, working class Irishman, loved Lady Sybil Crawley, daughter of an earl. All of his happiness for the last two years was due to her. She was not merely his best friend, she was his soulmate. And he had thrown it all away. He put his face in his hands and let the tears run freely.

A loud knock roused him from his misery. Swiping the back of his hand over his face, he crossed to the door, unable to stop the quickening of his heart. Could it be—?

It was Lord Grantham.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sybil woke up groggy the next morning, having slept barely at all, and decided to skip breakfast. She was filled with a despair that sapped her energy and left her wondering whether to get up at all. When Anna came in to open the draperies, she nearly told her to leave them closed, so certain was she that her anguish was written on her face for all to see, but that would only cause consternation and send her mother in to find out what was wrong with her.

But Sybil was young, and possessed of that optimistic nature inherent in those for whom problems in life have always come right in the end. As the sunlight filled her room, her natural resilience began to take hold and hope crept back into her heart. Sybil Crawley was not one to give up without a fight, and Tom Branson was the most important battle of her life. She would win this one, she vowed, she would make him understand. She would not give him up!

She ran down the stairs with new purpose. Grabbing a piece of toast, she joined Edith, the only one left at the table, and said cheerfully, “I think I’ll take a ride into Ripon today; do you need anything?”

Her sister looked at her. “Are you planning to walk?”

Sybil stared, confused. “What?”

“We don’t have a chauffeur. Branson quit. Papa says he’s gone back to Ireland.”


	4. Chapter 4

_We didn’t break, we didn’t burn_  
_We had to learn, how to bend without the world caving in_  
_I had to learn what I got, and what I’m not_  
_And who I am_

August, 1914

“I very much regret to announce…that we are at war with Germany!”

Her father’s dramatic words finally penetrated the shell that Sybil had built around herself since Tom Branson’s departure. The ‘Battle for Branson’, as Sybil had thought of it, was lost; he had left her. How little she had known him! That her impassioned declaration would send him scurrying away like a frightened rat sickened her to her core. She wanted to hate him…did hate him, she told herself…sometimes. All that was left was to move on.

But she had been unable to do so, drifting through the days, the weeks in a virtual fog of desolation, unable to rouse herself to do more than eat, sleep and go through the motions. She avoided the library; it was too painful to look at the ledger with its signatures and she was terrified of rousing the ghost of Tom Branson from its pages. Reading took too much energy anyway. She knew her parents were worried about her, but she didn’t care. She had lived a shadow existence…until her father’s declaration.

England was at war. Much bigger things were happening than Lady Sybil’s heartbreak, and it was time to grow up. Time for her to keep her promise to make something of herself. Even if he was not here to see it, she wanted to show Tom that she had meant the words she had thrown at him in the garage. She knew that she could no longer sit idly by wringing her hands and wallowing; she must achieve what she was meant to do…if only she knew what that was.

March, 1915

It was a conversation with cousin Isobel, Mattew’s mother, that set her on her path. Isobel had been the wife of a dotor and was a nurse herself; if anyone understood the importance of hard work, it was her “middle class” cousin. Several months into the war, with brave young men falling in France by the hundreds, Sybil had broken down and confessed how useless she felt, and Isobel had suggested that she might take a training course to become an auxiliary nurse…if she was serious. It was her salvation, just what she had been waiting for, what her sanity had craved. Bless Isobel!

So she had packed a few necessities and headed for York. Her training was the hardest two months of her life, and the most satisfying. She had told no one there about her status in society, wishing to make it on her own and also, if she was honest, wanting to prove to the memory of Tom Branon that she truly did not care about all of that nonsense.

Alhough she was at first a source of curiosity because of her lack of any basic domestic skill, she was a quick learner, and determination had never been lacking in Sybil’s character. She had made friends, worked harder than she had ever known was possible, and had graduated from the course with the highest marks. Now, eight weeks later, she was back at the Downton Village Hospital treating injuries more savage than anything about which she had ever dreamed or read. She felt alive for the first time in a very long time.

Her parents were confused by her job, especially Mama, who thought that the hospital worked her like a pack horse in a mine, as she put it. Mama had no idea what went on in the hospital as she studiously avoided going there, and thus expected her daughter home and changed into a dinner gown every night. The reality was that Sybil could barely stand up at the end of a long day, much less change into finery and sit at the dinner table discussing Mrs. Patmore’s latest culinary creation.

She was developing a better idea of what cousins Isobel and Matthew must have suffered when they first arrived at Downton, plucked from their comfortable middle class lives in Manchester and set down in the middle of the aristocracy. It must have seemed so foreign to them, she thought, and so useless. Sometimes Isobel caught her eye and raised a sardonic eyebrow, letting her know that she was now one of them. It warmed her heart. She was a part of something, and her loneliness receded just a bit.

Curiosly, Papa seemed almost glad to see her doing something, anything. He had handled her with kid gloves for months, often staring at her with a look that seemed to border on pity, but he had never approached her to discuss his odd behavior…or hers. It was mysterious and a bit irritating, but somehow she did not want to delve into the subject. She was glad neither of her parents had probed too much into her recent melancholy; they would have been shocked at its cause and she could never have explained it. Even if she no longer had him—had never really had him, she tried unconvincingly to remind herself—Tom Branson was her secret, hers alone.

July, 1916

Branson was hunkered down in a trench somewhere in the middle of Hell with members of the 16th Irish Division, listening to the artillery explode over his head and wondering what he was doing in a war that wasn’t his. After two years of fighting, the noise was a part of his existence, filling his body and reverberating inside his head. How in the name of all things holy had he wound up in this godforsaken part of France?

When he had heard parliamentarian John Redmond speak, calling for Irishmen to enlist in the British war effort “in defence of the highest principles of religion and morality and right”, he had allowed himself to be seduced into believing that his countrymen were doing the right thing for their nation. So when his newspaper had assigned him to cover Ireland’s presence at the front, he had convinced himself that Redmond was right in proclaiming that involvement in the Irish Regiments of the British Army would ensure Home Rule after a war which was sure to be over by Christmas.

And a year and a half later, here they still were, mired in mud and filth and death. Even though his weapons were a notebook and pen, his life was in as much danger as those of the men who knelt next to him.

In truth, Tom had not much cared what happened to him since returning to Ireland from Downton Abbey two years before. He had existed in a fog for weeks, sleeping much of the day and hanging out at the pub every night. But no amount of whiskey could erase Sybil Crawley from his mind or dull the memory of her lovely face lit up with passion as she declared her love for him. A love that he had discarded like yesterday’s rubbish.

How she must have hated him then, to have told her father that he had seduced her! He could still see the fury contorting Lord Grantham’s face as he accused Tom of luring and debauching his daughter. His shock had left him unable to defend himself, struck dumb as his employer ordered him off the property. Within the hour he had been on the train out of Downton, out of Sybil’s life forever. He ought to despise her for what she had done, but he just couldn’t. The fault was entirely his.

It was his mother who had rescued him from himself. Claire Branson was not about to let the son she loved so well destroy himself, so she had pulled him out of the pub and bullied him into applying to the city’s various news publications for a position as a journalist. On the strength of those letters to the editor written during his days as the Crawleys’ chauffeur, he had gotten a job at the Irish Bulletin, and rather to his own surprise, had excelled at it. Enough so that here he was at the back end of beyond with devastation raining all around and a future he thought he probably deserved looming before him.

A deafening crack split the air and jerked him back to himself, back to the mud-drenched trench and to his new reality. He ducked his head instinctivly, as did the men around him. This was no time, no place to let his mind wander to thoughts of his past life…to Sybil. She was as far away from the horrors of this war as was possible, and for that he was grateful.

“Hey, Tommy, will ye write somethin’ home to me mam to let her know how much fun we’re havin’ here?” said the lad crouched beside him. “I don’t want her to think I’m workin’ too hard, now!” He spoke tightly, tying unsuccessfully to cover the fear that was etched on his young face. Damn! Thought Tom. He couldn’t be more than sixteen.

“Sure, Danny,” he tried for a teasing tone. “That’s what I’m doing here, after all. Writing a travel column about this vacation paradise!” They all laughed, but the sound was forced and awkward. There was nothing funny about this place.

What he was really writing home about, of course, was the shell shock, the rats, and the ever present danger of developing cholera or trench foot. Most of the men were exhausted byond the point of emotion; they were automatons who dug incessantly to keep up with an enemy hunched only two hundred yards away and digging just as fast. In between the digging was the firing, the never-ending cacophony of war and death and destruction.

While the pundits pontificated about the glory of this war, those who fought their battles for them were physically and mentally shattered by their experience in the trenches. Tom felt that if he ever had the chance to meet John Redmond, he’d have something to say about those ‘highest principles’!

He sighed and turned back to the nightmare that was his existence now. There was no glory in men sending children out to kill for them. He wondered if anyone back home really read what he wrote, and he hoped that if they did, they weren’t sleeping well at night.


	5. Chapter 5

_Our differences they do a lot_  
_To teach us how to use_  
_The tools and gifts we got,_  
_Yeah, we got a lot at stake_

November, 1918

The conflict which would be known to history as The Great War was over, having lasted three years longer and cost more young lives than anyone had ever imagined. Downton had not been spared. William Mason, a much-loved footman, had died and cousin Matthew had been severely injured, but as Sybil stood with her family and the staff for a moment of silence to commemorate those who had been lost, she was thinking, as she so often did, of Tom Branson. Wondering if he was safe, hoping that he had survived the fighting that had not spared Ireland.

Two years ago had been the Easter rising in Dublin, which had killed over four hundred in a single bloody week, more than half of them civilians. Sybil knew that even if there had been no official conscription of Irishmen into the war in France, Tom would never have shrunk from the fight for Irish independence. It was one of the things she admired about him…one of so many things.

She shook herself and realized that the clock had run down, the moment had ended and everyone was filing out. The war was truly over, and it was time to move forward.

Unfortunately, forward meant different things to Sybil and her family. To her parents and sisters, at least Mary, forward meant backward; they seemed eager for things to go back to the way they had been before the war—back to the balls and tea parties and soirees. Sybil shuddered at the very thought. She wanted so much more now.

During the war, her family had done what others of the aristocracy were doing, albeit reluctantly—opening Downton Abbey as a convalescent center and collecting blankets and clothing for the wounded soldiers. Only officers, of course. As Granny had said, it would not do to have the classes mixing together. If she had only known about Tom, Sybil thought bitterly…and then shut the thought away into its secret place. That thought would lead to others, and there was no point in self-pity.

Edith had been particularly helpful to the soldiers billeted in their home, reading to them and writing letters for those who could not do so for themselves. She seemed to have blossomed in giving of herself, and Sybil hoped fervently that she would not return to her previous sulking and moping now that the soldiers were gone.

Mama and Mary—and of course Papa—had been a bit put out by the changes in their home and lifestyle but had put a good face on it and done their part. They were thrilled that the halls were now empty of beds and strangers, that the echoes throughout the cavernous halls were once again only their own.

“Sybil, darling?” Cora Crawley’s soft, tentative voice interrupted her musing.

“Yes, Mama?” What now? She always knew when Mama was up to something. She never came straight out with it, just tiptoed around an idea like a cat stalking a mouse, and she never saw how obvious she was. Or maybe she just didn’t care.

“I wonder if you could take some time off to come to London this weekend? Lady Grey is having a social and she especially asked after you. She reminded me how close you and Larry were, and thought it would be nice to get you two together again, like old times!”

“Mama!" Sybil attempted unsuccessfully to temper her irritation. “Larry Grey and I were never close!” About the fondest memory I have of him is when he pulled my hair and I put a spider down his shirt. We were eight, and it didn’t get any better from there! Besides, I simply can’t leave the hospital this weekend; one of the nurses is ill and Dr. Clarkson is short handed.”

Her mother’s color rose. “Dr. Clarkson is going to have to learn to do without you soon anyway! With the war over, things will go back to normal and you won’t have to volunteer at the hospital anymore. You never get enough sleep, you miss meals; we hardly see you anymore! In fact, your father is going to tell him…”

“Tell him _what_?” Sybil exploded. “I don’t think either of you understands, even after all this time! Did you actually think I would give up my nursing? It’s my career! I’m a volunteer now, but I want to continue my training and become a registered nurse, like cousin Isobel!

Her mother put up her hands in apparent surrender, but Sybil knew that this wasn’t over. Mama was just the vanguard of the attack; Papa was probably readying his assault as they spoke. Well, she would be ready. She was twenty-three now, and she had every intention of forging her own path. The very idea of giving up the hospital to attend a ridiculous social was ludicrous, and dangling that odious Larry Grey as bait showed just how little her mother really knew her anymore.

February, 1919

Tom was sure that the police would hear his wildly beating heart where he crouched in the shadows. He snorted to himself…police! The Royal Irish Constabulary were nothing more than paid thugs for the British government, bent on suppressing Sinn Féin since their landslide political victory and subsequent declaration of Irish independence in January.

If he were being fair, Sinn Féin was not totally innocent in the matter, having failed miserably to rein in their more violent members. Two of these had decided to “celebrate” their party’s victory by gunning down two RIC members in County Tipperary…on the very day of the election. And now all hell had broken loose, republicans arrested and jailed nearly every day, and here he was, right in the middle of another war. His newspaper’s guinea pig, again.

Tonight he was stationed outside Lincoln Gaol, where several republican leaders were being held. The Bulletin’s contacts had tipped off his editor that Sinn Féin might be planning to stage the escape of key members right under the noses of the RIC, and Tom had been tasked with obtaining a report on the breakout, if it were true. He didn’t like it. Sinn Féin had become increasingly erratic and violent, and he sometimes felt that they had forgotten their true mission in their hatred of the British.

A shadowy figure rounded the corner of the prison, followed closely by two more. The prisoners? As they slipped into the moonless night, a soft bird call broke the silence, then another, and without warning a dozen lanters split the darkness and the RIC were suddenly everywhere. Tom shrank back into the shadows as the police ran past, fanning out to intercept the escaping prisoners. In the next instant, a shot rang out and someone fell right in front of him.

Tom crawled to the injured man and knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse in the darkness. Yes! It was there, faint but steady; the man moaned and clutched at his shoulder. Blind in the moonless night, Tom’s groping hands felt a sticky pool. For fear of discovery he dared not turn on the lantern he had brought, but he reached into his pocket and found his handkerchief, clamping it over the wound and applying pressure. He placed the man’s hand on the cloth and whispered to him to keep pressing.

Exploring further, his fingers fumbled onto a small metal object, attached to a chain which must have fallen from the breast pocket. A whistle, standard issue for the RIC. Shite! He looked around in desperation, seeing no one and hearing nothing. He could not leave the man alone in the dark, and he most definitely could not be found here. Putting the whistle to his lips, he blew a single ear-piercing note into the darkness. Seconds later whistle split the night and he heard running footsteps.

“Keep pressing!” Tom whispered to the RIC man. “Someone is coming to help!”  
Th-thank y-you,” a voice from the ground whispered. Tom stood and ran for his life.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later Branson boarded the ferry traveling from Dublin to Holyhead. His editor had received word that the police wanted him for questionoing in the matter of the prison break, and had arranged for passage to England and an interview with a sympathetic journal in London…it was the best he could do, and Tom was grateful. Whether he had been betrayed or recognized was of no matter; he was compromised, and he had the sinking feeling that he might not see his native land for a long, long time.

As he stood at the rail watching Ireland disappear into the mist, a young woman came to stand nearby, and his heart lurched. Something about her suddenly reminded him of Sybil. This happened so often, close to the surface of his mind as she always was, but this time, perhaps because of the stress he had been under, he could not bear it, and he forced himself to stumble away before he broke down. Would this pain never end?

And then suddenly, the shell of hurt and suffering that he had built around himself cracked and fell away, and before he could think better of it he made his decision. He was going to England anyway; he would go to see Sybil, tell her the truth about his feelings for her, and see if she still felt anything at all for him. It was a lunatic idea, of course, but what did he have to lose, really? He knew that he could never rest until he at least attempted to see her one last time…if only to apologize and say goodbye.

~~~~~~~~~~

And so, three weeks later, Tom Branson left the Grantham Arms in the village of Downton, Yorkshire, and began the walk toward his future. His emotions were a conflicting mass of alternating hope, terror, and anxiety. His stomach was knotted and he felt nauseous. This was by far the stupidest idea he had ever had, he told himself, idiotic, futile, and utterly terrifying. But his feet weren’t listening.

The feet took him down the well-known street automatically, as his body remembered the way while his brain spun and jittered. He saw nothing of his surroundings, his mind focused on the elaborate entrance gate just across the road. Downton Abbey.

It had been almost five years, a long time. What if her passion had been just the figment of a teenage imagination? What if she had forgotten him? What if she had married? How would he avoid Lord Grantham, who would surely want to prevent his seeing Sybil at all? With no answers presenting themselves, his thoughts spun and whirled, and then narrowed and converged into a red haze triangulating on his goal. He saw the gate, looming just across the road.

He never saw the car.


	6. Chapter 6

_And in the end, you’re still my friend_  
_At least we did intend_  
_For us to work, we didn’t break,_  
_We didn’t burn_

February, 1919

Sybil wiped her hands on the apron of her uniform and tried unsuccessfully to push the wisps of flyaway hair out of her face.

“Crikey!” she muttered irritably. “As soon as I get a free moment, I’m getting this mess cut off!” She removed and retied her scarf for te third time that morning.

She knew that she could probably get that free moment, or a free week if she wanted it, at any time. Downton Cottage Hospital was not the bustling place it had been during the war. The droves of injured soldiers were gone, replaced by victims of farm equipment accidents, older residents plagued by the inevitable winding down of the human body, and small patients who suffered from the usual childhood illnesses. Dr. Clarkson could easily handle most complaints that came through the door of his hospital with only one nurse and a volunteer or two.

The truth was, she was simply biding her time, waiting for the results of her entrance exam for the Royal College of Nursing. She was nervous. Sybil knew that she had an agile mind, but her schooling had been sketchy due to the parade of a seemingly infinite number of governesses, some better than others but none of them seeing any reason to concentrate on math and science—whatever would she need _that_ for?

She sniffed, remembering the lessons in posture and deportment which had taken precedence over anything truly academic. Why, it was a wonder that she had ever learned to read at all!

Of all the tutors and governesses through the years of her childhood, her favorite had been Mrs. Wallace, mainly because it was she who had sat patiently with a five year old child who ached to learn, painstakingly going over the letters and sounds of the alphabet until they became her wings, the wellspring of her freedom.

Yes, there had been champions on her journey, first Mrs. Wallace and now cousin Isobel, who had tenaciously backed her with her parents and then coached her through the weak spots in her education. Without Isobel’s encouragement, Sybil doubted that she would ever have had the courage to apply to London’s Royal College of Nursing.

It was, after all, the best. Opened in 1916 with thirty four students, the school’s population had swelled to more than two thousand members in a year, and now in 1919 there were thirteen thousand, forty eight young women studying in its hallowed halls. As Sybil anxiously awaited the results of her exam, she was determined to be number thirteen thousand, forty-nine.

Her parents, especially Mama, were worried that she was wasting her marriageable years on this obsession, as they saw it. She had not had a season, after all, as most of the eligible young men had been fighting and dying in France, and while Sybil had not missed for a minute being a debutante and curtsying before the king, Mama saw the loss as a contributing factor in her daughter’s choice of such an odd avocation as nursing.

The arguments over her erratic hours…and the thinly veiled atempts at matchmaking…had escalated over the past weeks. For more that a few dinners she had seemed engaged in an endless dance around the topic of her social life—or rather, her unsocial life—but lately things had smoothed out a bit, and for now her parents seemed to have accepted her choice. Which was as well, because it was her choice.

“Nurse Crawley!”

Dr. Clarkson’s agitated voice broke into her reverie, jerking her rudely back to the present moment. Normally Sybil loved the fact that he always called her Nurse Crawley at work, leaving Lady Sybil back at the Abbey, but now he sounded quite upset.

“I need your full attention, Nurse,” he chided her. “There’s been an accident; they’re bringing him in now. It’s bad.”

Sybil had not seen so much blood since those terrible days at the height of the war. The man had been brought in by two locals, rugged characters well know for their brusque, hardened manner. Both men were shaking as though ill, faces drained of all color as they stammered out their story.

“He just walked right in front of the car!”  
“Nuthin’ I could do!”  
“He flew up over the bonnet!…”  
“Hit his head…bleedin’ so much…”  
“Is he dead? I think he’s dead!”

Dr. Clarkson deftly took charge of the men and sent them off with a nurse to calm down, and then took stock of his patient. He was not dead—not yet. He had a thready pulse and was breathing, soft gasping sounds accompanied by a fine spray of blood. Most of the blood, however, seemed to have come from a nasty gash near his temple…lucky that, thought Clarkson, another inch lower and there would have been no chance for the poor chap.

Not that there was much of a chance anyway. His arms and legs seemed intact, no broken limbs, but it was the bruises spreading over his torso and the bloody mist that told the doctor it was very likely internal injuries that would do for him. Poor lad. It was probably better that he was unconscious.

“Nurse Crawley?” Sybil hastened to his side. We’re going to have to clean him up before we can see what’s going on here; please get him ready as quickly as you can.”

As Sybil readied the equipment she would need, a hospital volunteer checked the pockets of the jacket the man had been wearing, hoping for some identification. Finding a crumpled piece of paper in the breast pocket, she delivered it to Dr. Clarkson, who paused in his ministrations to scan the document. His head snapped up.

“Nurse Crawley? I think you might know this man.”

Sybil came over, carrying a basin of water and sponges. “Know him?”

Dr. Clarkson handed her the mangled piece of paper. “Didn’t he work for your family once?”

It was a letter from the editor of the Irish Bulletin, recommending the carrier as a candidate for a position at the Westminster Gazette, in London. And the name…

The basin fell from her nerveless fingers and crashed to the floor, and for a long moment everything around her wavered and the room turned black around the edges of her vision.

_The name was Tom Branson._

Her eyes shot to the still figure lying in that bed, so gravely injured, maybe dying. Without knowing how she got there, she found herself at his side, pushing the blood soaked hair away from his forehead, finding the face that never left her dreams.

“Get some water and another sponge!” she screamed. She scrabbled for Tom’s hand, held it in her own, sobbing his name.

“Noo-ooo,” she moaned. “Don’t do this to me!” She was no longer Nurse Crawley; she was just Sybil, a woman in love and gripped by terror. A woman oblivious to everything but the man in the hospital bed. Everything including Dr. Clarkson, as he stood at the foot of the bed staring at her, a look of shock on his face.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tom was swimming…or was he floating? He could not put a name to the place in which he found himself, but it was beautiful, imbued with every shade of green imaginable. Was he in Ireland? He had never seen green like this anywhere but his homeland, so it must be Ireland. The pain was gone…why had there been pain?…and he felt at peace.

He floated on…or was it up?…and the green began to give way to a luminous blue, and then to a soft white. There was a light in the distance, and he didn’t know why, but he felt compelled to go to it. He floated on and up, helpless but strangely content.

“ _Tom…it is time…you have done enough…you can rest now….”_ The voice was ethereal, serene, gently urging. He wanted so desperately to follow it.

“Tom…come back to me…please don’t leave me…please don’t leave me!” Now a new voice called to him, strangely familiar; it was ragged, drenched in agony and pain. And he knew that this was the voice he was meant to follow. He floated on, and up.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sybil sat at Tom’s bedside, where she had been for the better part of two days, holding his hand. Somehow she felt that if she let go she would lose him forever. There had been no change in his condition, but wasn’t that a good sign? Dr. Clarkson had entreated her to come away, to rest, but she ignored him. Nothing on earth would make her move from his side now.

“Tom, I love you. You have always had my heart, and if I lose you again I don’t think I can go on,” Sybil breathed, stroking his cheek with her free hand. “We are so close now—this time I will follow you wherever you go; I’ll not be left behind again. Do you understand me, Tom Branson? I will not let you go, and if you need time I’ll wait. I’d wait forever!” Just wake up and look at me. Please…please…will you come back to me?”

In the ensuing silence, an epemeral whisper drifted into the air, soft and insubstantial as a spring breeze over the Downton fields. “…sss…i….”

Sybil burst into Dr. Clarkson’s office.

“He’s waking up! Dr. Clarkson, he’s waking up! He’s going to be alright!” She could barely get the words out in her excitement. Her breathing was rapid and the color was high in her face. “Come see!” She raced away, fearing even these few moments away from Tom.

Dr. Clarkson slowly lowered the document he had been reading and looked at the empty doorway. He had been worried about Lady Sybil Crawley ever since Mr. Branson had been brought in. She was the finest nurse he had ever known, a natural healer, calm in the face of the most barbarous injuries the war could throw at her. She had seen so many young men die, and she had always cared deeply about the family’s staff, considered them friends. When the footman William had succumbed she had been sad, had even shed a few tears, but not…this.

Never before had she been inconsolable, as she had been with this one. Her reaction had been excessive, hysterical. Mr. Branson was the family’s former chauffeur, a servant. This was…inappropriate. She had been _grieving_. And now this effusion of happiness was even more disturbing. He did not want to handle this alone; he needed advice.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sybil’s joy had been premature; in the days since she had been sure she had heard his voice, Tom had not regained consciousness, although his breathing seemed a bit easier and she was certain he had gained some color. When Dr. Clarkson ordered her to go home and get some rest, she complied, knowing that she was on the edge of exhaustion and needed to be ready.

She dragged herself up the long stairway and into the bedroom that had been hers since she had left the nursery, gazing around as though bidding her childhood goodbye. For that, she realized, was exactly what she was doing. As she sank into sleep, Sybil vowed that when Tom Branson was ready to leave Downton, she would be going with him. No matter what _anyone_ said.

She slept for nearly two days, waking disoriented and muzzy. Cursing herself, Dr. Clarkson, and everyone who had not awakened her—why hadn’t they? she wondered vaguely—Sybil threw herself into her nurse’s uniform, slipped silently out the massive front doors, and rushed down the lane to the hospital.

Would this be the day? Would they finally be able to look into each other’s eyes after all the years between them? He loved her; she knew that now. He had been coming for her—why else would he be in Downton? She grinned as she thought that first she would kiss him straight through a day or so, and then she would absolutely murder him for putting her through all this fear and anguish. She knew that Tom still had a long convalescence ahead, but they would go through it together. She would take such good care of him! She had never been so happy.

She nearly skipped into the hospital, coming to an abrupt halt as she was confronted by Dr. Clarkson.

“Lady Sybil…”

_Not Nurse Crawley. Lady Sybil._

“I’m very sorry, Lady Sybil. Your friend’s injuries were just too severe…” He took a deep breath.

“Mr. Branson died last night.”

For the first time in her life, Lady Sybil Crawley fainted.

 


	7. Chapter 7

_I won’t give up on us_  
_Even if the skies get rough_  
_I’m giving you all my love_  
_I’m still looking up_

May, 1919

Cora Crawley, née Levinson, Countess of Grantham, gazed across the massive dining table at the stranger who was her youngest daughter.

What had happened to her sweet, happy child? She thought in despair. Cora would have denied it to her death if challenged, but Sybil had always been her favorite. Not the easiest, that was certainly true. She had been difficult since she had forced herself fiercely into the world twenty-three years ago in a birth that should have killed both mother and child. She had argued more often than she had agreed with anyone, and she had driven her nannies and governesses nearly insane with her questions and her rebellion.

But this child, who had been her father’s last hope for a male heir, had also been the kindest, gentlest, and most giving of the Crawley children. She mediated disputes between her high-strung older sister Mary, and her woeful, introverted sister Edith. She knew all the servants and regarded them as friends. She had her father wrapped around her little finger.

It was safe to say that Sybil was almost everyone’s favorite Crawley. She reminded Cora of her own mother; tough, honest, and forthright. She was lovely inside and out. But where was that child now?

Cora remembered only one other time, just before the start of the war, when Sybil had withdrawn into herself like this and disappeared. Then, as now, she had become too quiet, had stopped challenging her father at the dinner table or intervening in Mary and Edith’s battles. She had been, for lack of a better word, _missing_.

When Cora had mentioned it to Robert, he had discounted her worry, saying that Sybil was a child, and children sometimes became upset about things. Such a man thing to say, thought Cora in disgust.

In a way, she realized, it had been the war itself that had ended her daughter’s depression that other time. When she had decided to become a nurse, she had come out of the shadows and rejoined the living, throwing herself into her new passion almost desperately.

Cora felt somewhat guilty that she had fought so hard against the nursing, both then and recently, when Sybil had insisted on becoming a registered nurse and continuing a career that her mother felt was neither necessary nor appropriate for one of her station. But this…this _emptiness_ …was so much worse!

Sybil was so beautiful; if she had had a season she would surely be married by now. And that was the real mystery, Cora realized. Why had she never shown the slightest interest in any of the young men she had met over the years? Of course, the war had denied her so much of the social opportunity enjoyed by aristocratic young ladies before her, and had been responsible for the deaths of so many eligible suitors, but for some reason Cora did not think that this was the problem with Sybil.

No, she had simply shown no interest at all in either marriage or courtship. She was kind as always, she smiled, she even danced and laughed on the rare occasions she could be dragged away from the hospital. But she had built a wall around herself, an invisible barricade constructed of politeness and fortified with indifference. And no man was getting over that wall.

Until recently, her drive to be a professional nurse had filled her days and nights, and her parents had finally begun to accept that Sybil was different, that maybe this was the path she was meant to take. Until a few months ago. That was when it all changed.

“I’m quite tired; I think I’ll go directly to bed tonight,” said Sybil tonelessly, breaking into her mother’s reverie. “May I please be excused?” Without waiting for an answer, she stood up from the table and wandered in the direction of the staircase.

 _Why_ was she so tired? Cora thought grimly. Three months ago, she had come home from the hospital one morning and gone straight to her room. She had never gone back, and she had refused to talk about it. Since then, Sybil rarely left her room except for meals. How could she be tired all the time, when she did nothing!

Again, Robert had seemed reluctant to address Cora’s concerns. Wasn’t this what she had always wanted? he had asked. Sybil was finally giving up the nursing; she just needed to adjust to the change—it would pass if they gave her time.

Cora had eventually gone to the hospital to speak with Dr. Clarkson, only to find that he had left the hospital and the village. At the time, she had been surprised that she had not heard of this; in a small place like Downton, this was news, and Dr. Clarkson had been a fixture. Robert, when she asked, had said off-handedly that the doctor had received an offer at a Manchester hospital that was too good to pass up—and had changed the subject.

Now, alone with her husband in their cavernous bedroom, Cora turned from her dressing table and pinned her husband with a glare. “This has gone too far, Robert! There is something very wrong with Sybil, and I mean to find out what it is! It has been three months. She simply cannot go on this way!”

Robert Crawley said nothing. Cora continued to stare at him—was he _fidgeting_? Her eyes tightened. Fidgeting was something quite irregular for the Earl of Grantham. His behavior, she thought suspiciously, was decided odd.

Finally, in response to the steel in her gaze, he sat up straight and spoke flatly.

“Sybil is a grown woman, and we must let her find her own way in the world,” Robert said stiffly. “She’s done this before; she’ll get over it.” He twitched under his wife’s stare and added, too quickly, “Whatever it is.”

Cora’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever it is?” Do you know what _it_ is, Robert? PLease do not lie to me; I know you too well! Do you kow something you are not telling me?”

Her voice had risen as she gathered steam, and Robert stared at her, gauging his chances of evading this subject and finding them slim. His espression went from outage to chagrin, and finally to resignation. His shoulders slumped; he took a breath and held it, exhaling slowly.

“Five years ago,” he sighed heavily, as if shedding an intolerable burden, “Sybil was seduced by one of the servants.” At Cora’s shocked intake of breath, he put up a hand. “I handled it; the man was sent away immediately, but of course it was a dreadful experience for her.” He looked up carefully, fearful of what he would find in his wife’s face. He was not reassured.

“Sybil was attacked? In our house? And you did not think to tell me?” Cora’s voice was rising in pitch, the questions fired with deadly velocity. “You did not think that such an experience might cause a young girl to need her mother? Robert, how could you?”

Robert Crawley tried to retrieve his equanimity and remember that he was the earl of a large estate. “It was done, Cora! The man was gone, and Sybil did get over it eventually.” He straightened to his full height. “And I am the head of the house; it was up to me to take care of this!”

Wrong approach, he saw immediately.

Cora’s voice dropped to a soft whisper, but Robert was in no way deluded into thinking that she was calm, or that he was in the clear. “Who was this man?”

“It was Branson—the chauffeur.”

“Branson?” Cora vaguely remembered the chauffeur. Irish, wasn’t he? Very deferential and polite. She felt a black rage begin to build within her heart, and knew with a mother’s certainty that if the man were here now, she would kill him herself, with her bare hands.

With effort she dragged her attention back to the present problem. “And how does something that you took care of _five years ago_ have anything to do with the way Sybil is behaving now?”

“Erm…” he started, stopped, heaved a sigh and forged on. “He came back.”

Cora’s face drained of color. She leaned forward and said, her voice shaking, “Came back? Here? To our home?”

“Nooo,” said her husband. “He showed up in the village three months ago. He was in an accident, and was taken to the hospital.”

“And Sybil saw him there.”

“Yes.”

“My poor baby!” Cora gasped in horror.

Then, narrowing her eyes at her husband, she asked carefully, “So…how did you _take care of it_ this time?” Nothing was going to stop Cora now until she heard it all.

When Robert had finally stumbled through his story and wound down, she sat still for a long moment. Finally, she inhaled slowly and stood up. “Come with me. It is time to talk to Sybil.” Lord Grantham wisely followed her, without a word.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sybil…may we come in?”

“Please, Mama, no. I’m very tired.”

“Darling, this is of utmost importance.”

“I really don’t want—”

“Sybil, open the door!”

Sybil opened the door. She turned her back on her parents and marched over to sit on her bed. “Yes?” she said shortly.

There was no point in dragging their feet, Cora thought. “Darling, we know that you have not been yourself lately, and we’ve—”

“I’m fine, Mama,” her daughter said wearily. “Just tired.”

“We know what happened before the war…” her mother began again.

“Before the war?” Now Sybil seemed genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, Sybil!” We know about Branson!”

Sybil paled, shock freezing her features. Silence fell, a heavy grey stillness flushed with emotion. Oppressive, relentless; it grew and filled the room until it threatened to crush them all with the weight of its sadness.

It was broken, finally, by a whimper, a choking cry, and then Sybil was sobbing into her hands, letting go of all the pain and anguish that had been stifling her these three months, holding her hostage and robbing her of her will. She cried for a very long time, and Cora and Robert said nothing as it all drained away. Finally she looked up, hicupping, eyes red and empty.

“What does it all matter now?” she asked heavily. “He’s g-gone….He’s…gone.”

“Yes, and you are safe,” said Cora. He will never hurt you again.”

Sybil’s head snapped up. Her eyes were coals burning in her pale face. “What do you mean, _hurt me_? Tom never hurt me! He could never!”

“I understand how a young girl might misinterpret the situation,” her mother said softly, carefully. “It is perfectly normal. It was not your fault.” She looked at Robert, who had been struck dumb by the outpouring of emotion. This was obviously going to be up to her.

“You were only eighteen, and sheltered. I don’t know what he had in mind…” well, that was not true. She knew exactly what he had had in mind. She felt the rage begin to build again and tamped it down viciously. This was not the time. She tried again. “Sometimes men—especially those of a lower class—take liberties, make advances…it is our fault for not taking better notice of his character.”

“I was going to sack him for allowing you to be injured at the count,” muttered her father. “Ridiculous, radical ideas…I should never have listened to you, Sybil. I knew better! And then, the very next day! To seduce my daughter under my own roof! That was the thanks we got for letting the miserable weasel keep his job? The minute Barrow told me what he had done, I turned him off the property and packed him back to his godforsaken country!” Robert’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I am so very sorry, my darling. I should have taken better care of you. Can you forgive me?”

Sybil was staring at her parents in shock.

“What are you _talking_ about?” she gasped. She stopped; took a deep breath.

“Tom didn’t seduce me! I seduced _him_!”

“Now, Sybil…” said her mother, soothingly. “You might think…”

“I seduced him!” she screamed, out of all control now. “He did _nothing_ wrong! I fell in love with him, and I chased him, and I bothered him constantly, and I told him I wanted to run away with him…and _he turned me down,_ because he was too honorable! I thought he ran away from me!”

She stopped mid-tirade as something struck her. “He _didn’t_ leave to get away from me,” she said in wonder. “He didn’t abandon me.” She looked up at her stunned parents, tears streaming down her face. “That’s why he came back! I was right! He came back for _me_ ; he _did_ love me!”

Her face crumpled. “And now he’s dead, and none of it matters anyway.” She put her head in her hands, and all that could be heard in the room was the sound of her muffled sobbing, as her heart broke all over again.

Cora and Robert looked at each other. Neither said anything for a long while. Then, following an imperceptible nod from Cora, Robert spoke, a muffled, hollow sound that hung in the still air.

“Sybil…there is something that I need to tell you.”


	8. Chapter 8

_I won’t give up on us_  
_God knows I’m tough enough_  
_We’ve got a lot to learn_  
_God knows we’re worth it_

Tom and Sybil sat on the dock of the lake, splashing the water with their bare feet while their hands wandered and explored. How had he managed to fend her off so many years ago in that garage? He thought in wonder. She was so lovely, so honest, so real, and she was his. He would never stop marveling at it. She had rejected all those posh gits and chosen him. The world was an amazing place.

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” he murmured.

“Well, since I had to chase you down and explain it to you, I think I do,” laughed Sybil, her voice soft and husky. Her tongue found his ear, fragmenting his will and leaving him weak.

“And me a poor Irishman, just tryin’ to do m’job,” he murmured, accent thickening as his hand found its way beneath her shift. “There I was—he sighed dramatically—innocent, off-guard, and you took shameless advantage of me!”

“That’s not how I remember it.” Sybil’s soft husky voice teased, wavered, and then seemed to change, coarsening, growing raspy and waspish. Her eyes narrowed, became rheumy, bloodshot, the glorious blue fading to a washed out, bleary grey. Stunned, he watched as her skin rippled and bent into wrinkled leather folds, and her nose sharpened and twitched. Sybil was gone, and in her place was the malevolent face of O’Brien.

“And me a poor Irishman!” the voice mocked, and then it snarled, “Did you think she’d ever accept the likes of you? You—a revolutionary Fenian social climber?” O’Brien cackled, a thin, nasty sound. “You always were too full of yourself. What a fool!

“Did you know we watched you, me and Thomas? We knew you were up to no good, tryin’ to entice that poor, innocent girl! All those trips to the garage? But we saw, and we fixed you!” The voice thinned, becoming a hiss. “We sssssaw, and we told, and they sssssent you away…”

Tom stared in horror as O’Brien’s body curled in upon itself, her forked tongue flicking in and out of her lipless mouth, arms and legs dissolving into a long, undulating form, iridescent scales replacing the black uniform. She gave him one last viperous look and sank her fangs into his arm, before uncoiling herself and slithering off into the undergrowth.

He screamed, and woke up.

The nurse gasped and withdrew the needle she had just inserted into his arm. “You’re awake! That’s wonderful!” She gave him a huge smile and added, “I’m so sorry about sticking you; I’ll just get the doctor. He’ll be so pleased; we were quite worried about you for awhile there!”

May, 1919

Sybil came out of the eighth hospital she had visited in three days and plopped herself wearily down on the bench at its entrance. Nothing. She was persistent and God knew she was stubborn, but sheer determination—all right, some would call it pigheadedness—could only get you so far. There were a lot of hospitals in London. No one remembered him; it was as if he had vanished from the face of the earth.

But he was alive! Tom Branson was alive, or at least he had been three months ago when her father had seen him spirited away in the dead of night from Downton Cottage Hospital, while she slept in her old bedroom and planned their glorious future together.

“ _Sybil…there is something that I need to tell you.”_

She knew that someday she would forgive her father for what he had done. He had, after all, thought he protecting her. Her mother had known nothing, which explained so much about what was wrong with the world. If her mother had known, she would have sought her daughter out to comfort her. And if Sybil had known, she would have moved heaven and earth to find Tom.

All of this wasted time, all of these… _years_ …of heartache, all because men could not treat women as equals! Could not be honest, could not share with them. It would not be that way with Tom. In spite of the differences of their birth, they were equals in all the ways that were important, and she would spend the rest of her life showing him how much that meant to her. If she found him. _When_ she found him.

The trouble was, she had so little to go on. He had been moved to a London hospital, that much she knew. Dr. Clarkson had gone to Papa with his concerns about her “inappropriate” attachment to the former chauffeur—and it would be a very long time before she could forgive _him_ , she thought—and had made the arrangements at her father’s bidding. The kindly doctor she had known since her childhood had looked her in the face and _lied_ to her; it was unbelievable!

Papa did not know to which hospital Tom had been moved; he had left it all up to Dr. Clarkson and then paid him off with a new job in Manchester—out of sight, out of mind. The problem had been solved; the Earl of Grantham hadn’t wanted to know the details.

Sybil was at a loss as to a starting place, but she knew that someone would have a record, might know what had happened to him. That wasn’t the real problem—the question that tormented her waking hours and disturbed her sleep. Tom was not likely still in hospital, after all this time. So beyond the where, there was the _why_.

If he was alive, _why_ had he not attempted to contact her in the three months that he had been gone? She refused to believe that he had come all the way to Downton just to give up on her in the end. What if his injuries really had been too great? Or what if he had gone back to Ireland?

These thoughts spun and flickered in her mind during the day and filled her nights—teasing, taunting her. If he was alive, what was keeping him away?

She sighed and forced herself to get up off the bench. That was enough for today, she simply could do no more. She was staying at Aunt Rosamund’s London house and was expected for dinner, and searching was hungry work.

And tomorrow she had to purchase the books she needed to begin her studies at the Royal College of Nursing. The acceptance had come a month ago, but such had been her depression that she had tossed it aside, not caring what she would do the next moment, let alone the next year. Now, the thought of becoming a professional, registered nurse was grounding her, protecting her sanity…while she searched.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Branson!”

Tom flinched. As the newest reporter at London’s Westminster Gazette he was given all the grunt jobs, those news bits that often would not even make the paper in the end. He was better than this, he thought glumly. He knew the routine, had been through it before. He knew he had to put in his time in order to move up, but he didn’t have to like it. Can’t wait for this one, he thought.

“Those suffragists are at it again! It isn’t enough that they’re allowed to vote now, they have a problem with the age. Thirty’s not good enough, they have to be equal to the men. I think they just want an excuse to stay out of the house!” his editor went on grumbling. “There’s a rally at Speaker’s Corner this afternoon…go cover it in case one of those women says something printable. Doubt it, but you never know.”

With a sigh, Tom collected his notebook and left the office. As he walked toward Hyde Park, he reflected that this assignment would be the worst yet—how could he see those suffragists and not think of Sybil? She was with him always, though he would never see her again.

He forced himself to walk on, his somewhat stiff gait betraying the residual effects of the mysterious accident from which he had awakened in a London hospital nearly three months ago. Ho one had been able to tell him how he had gotten there, but apparently he was extremely lucky to be alive. He could recall nothing about the accident itself, but he did remember some things.

He remembered dreaming. Some of the time he was floating…in air? water? There were all sorts of images in his dreams, some pleasant, some terrifying. Incomparable beauty…he thought he remembered being in Ireland, and there was a hideous repulsiveness…some kind of snake?

But in every dream there was Sybil. Her beautiful, precious face came to him out of the darkness, and he had the oddest feeling that somehow she was keeping him alive. She was holding onto him, telling him she loved him, that she would wait for him…and then she was gone, and he had awakened to the letter from Lord Grantham that had arrived with him at the hospital. The letter that was burned into his memory.

_Mr. Branson,_

_This letter will be the last communication that you receive from me or any member of my family. I have left enough money with the hospital staff to cover your passage to Dublin, or wherever you wish to go, so long as it is not anywhere near Downton.  
I thought that I had made myself clear years ago, but evidently that is not the case. You should know that in spite of your efforts, Lady Sybil is happy and has forgotten your criminally inappropriate behavior towards her; in fact she is to be married very soon. No one in the Crawley family wishes to see or speak with you, and I must tell you that if you ever set foot in Downton Village in future I will see you in prison. I trust that we shall never meet again._

_Robert Crawley  
Earl of Grantham_

_…she is to be married very soon._ It was over. Tom realized that he should be grateful even to be alive, but he wasn’t so sure about that. He supposed he would simply have to work on getting well, must just keep putting one foot in front of the other; it would have to be enough.

And so, three months later, here he was doing just that. One foot in front of the other, one day at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sybil stood at the fringes of the crowd at Speaker’s Corner, holding tightly to the three large textbooks she had just bought and wondering how on earth she was going to learn everything inside them. And how would she ever find the time to continue her search for Tom, with her head stuck in these books?

She hadn’t been able to pass up the rally as she walked through the park on her way home. Young women cheering, clapping, laughing; things had certainly changed since the days before they won the right to vote, she thought, remembering back to the very first rally she had ever attended, in Ripon…with Tom. She placed that thought firmly back into its compartment in her mind and moved further into the crowd, sharing a warm smile with the woman next to her.

Parliament had finally passed the Representation of the People act last year, giving women over the age of thirty who owned property the right to vote. It was not enough; there was still work to be done, but it was a start. Now the events were attended mostly by young women, and there was a sense of celebration rather than the anger and frustration of years past. Rallies now were more fun, and Sybil was drawn to them like a moth to flame. Things were happening. It was a wonderful time to be a woman.

As the speech wound down, Sybil realized how much time had passed and turned to squeeze herself out of the crowd. The next moment she trod on someone’s toe and was jostled by the irritated victim. Her load of books teetered, slipped, and tumbled to the grass.

“Oh, bosh!” she exclaimed irritably, and bent to pick up the books. She was tired of them already, and she hadn’t even opened them yet.

“Can I help?” said a soft Irish voice. Sybil froze.

A pair of hands reached down to help her pick up the books. Straightening slowly, she turned to her rescuer…and found herself looking into the face that haunted her dreams, a face she had feared she might never see again. Down went the books again, to lie forgotten at their feet.

Time stopped. The sounds of the rally receded and disappeared, replaced by a thunderous tumult that rang in her ears and scattered her senses. She tried to speak, failed, tried again, and managed a small squeak.

“Tom?” Of its own volition, her hand reached up to rest on his cheek, as it had three months ago in Downton Hospital. This time his clear, sea blue eyes were open, focused, _alive_. He was here, standing right in front of her. He was real.

“Sybil?” his voice cracked. “Wha-? How-?” He placed his own hand over hers, as if to convince himself that she existed, that it was really she who stood trembling before him.

The next moment his arms went around her, his lips crashed down on hers, and he was kissing her with all the pent up emotion born of five years of loss, fear, and hope. Sybil had never been kissed before, ever, but somehow she knew that this kiss was the way it was supposed to be. Her lips melted into his, tears streaming down her face. Her arms wrapped around him and it was perfect, as she had always known it would be.

Minutes…hours?…passed, as the two stood in the middle of Hyde Park, oblivious to their surroundings, holding onto one another as if neither would be able to stand upright alone. And perhaps this was true. But all moments must end, and finally they separated, blinking in the sunlight, and stood staring at each other.

“Sybil…I…uh…I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that!” Tom stammered, the color high in his cheeks.

“W-what?” She was unable to focus, all thoughts on that kiss, on the wonder of him.

“Well…I mean…aren’t you enga—?” His eyes widened in sudden horror. “Are you _married_?”

Of all the questions he could have asked, she was totally unprepared for that one. “Married? To a man?”

He relaxed a little at that, and his lips quirked. “Well, I suppose so. That’s how it works. But Lord Grantham said…in his letter…that you…ahhhh.”

Sybil gave him an amused grin. “You may have noticed, you are not my father’s favorite person. I shouldn’t pay much attention to anything he might have said. And no, I am most assuredly _not_ married!”

“Would you like to be?” He blushed as if unsure where that had come from, but held her gaze, his own true and steady and full of love.

She was uncertain how she was supposed to answer him, as her nurse’s training told her she needed to be breathing in order to speak, but somehow she was saying something anyway.

“Tom Branson, I have waited for you for five years, and loved you far longer than that. There has never been another man in my life! I told you I’d wait forever—well, I’m tired of waiting. Of course I’ll marry you!

She stopped, suddenly shy. “If that’s what you were asking.”

His answer was to crush her to him once more. Despite his blindness, his stupidity, this woman, this wonderful, confusing, glorious woman, still wanted him as much as he wanted her. She was worth every moment of the pain and agony, every second of the time they had spent apart, divided by distance, war, and misunderstanding. She had always been a part of him, he knew, but now she was truly his; they would never be separated again. The world was changing, and they would be there to welcome it…together.

“Oh, my darling,” he breathed. “I do love you so much!”

 


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue

August, 1920

Tom and Sybil sat on the dock of the lake at Downton Abbey, splashing the water with their bare feet while their hands wandered and explored. After a year of marriage, Tom still wondered how this had happened to him, a working class son of Ireland. He marveled at the fortune that had brought him here, that had given him Sybil.

She was his universe, his sun and moon and the stars by which he steered his life. If he was never able to return to his homeland, if he was stuck in England for the rest of his life, it would be all right, as long as Sybil was by his side.

He glanced back at the imposing edifice of Downton Abbey rising majestically behind them, and thought on the direction his life had taken. In his wildest dreams he never could have imagined that he would find his soulmate in the midst of the British aristocracy, that at the end of the day he would be the son-in-law of an earl.

It certainly hadn’t been without its bumps and scrapes. He and Lord Grantham—Robert—were never going to be completely at ease with each other, not given the history that had brought them to this place, but they were working on it.

Cora had been his champion, so mortified at what had been done to him that she could not do enough to welcome him into the family. And she was American, so there was that.

Mary had been standoffish at first, but she was a pragmatist; if Sybil was happy, she would be happy. And it was obvious that Sybil was very happy, so Mary would adjust. Besides, she and Matthew had finally admitted their feelings for each other, which meant she had more to think about than him.

Surprisingly, Tom had found an unlikely ally in Edith, sharing a camaraderie born of the early days when he had taught her to drive and shored up her courage in the face of ridicule by her older sister.

Even Sybil’s Granny, the Dowager Countess and a formidable force indeed, had decided that Tom had skills with which they could work…and perhaps, she said, they could attach him to the Bransons of Cork—members of the Irish aristocracy who had absolutely no connection whatsoever to the Bransons of Dublin, but no matter. It was all in the presentation.

He had been somewhat surprised at first by the support from Matthew and his mother Isobel, but he supposed he should have expected as much from Sybil’s middle class cousins. They had once been fish out of water in this world themselves, and thus understood his learning curve. And, like his Sybil, they just didn’t care much for all that nonsense.

Oddly, it was the staff who had been the most wary of his new status. While some, like Anna and Mrs. Hughes, seemed delighted at a relationship they had always suspected, there were others who were simply appalled, or newly shy in his presence.

Carson treated him with a frosty respect, and Barrow studiously avoided him whenever possible. O’Brien, apparently, had left mysteriously during the night without giving notice…thank God. And although Mrs. Patmore still fed him well when they visited, now it was at the big table, and impersonal. After the first time, when he’d tried to show them he hadn’t got too big for his boots, he rarely ventured downstairs.

The wedding had been held at Downton, a small private affair that was all they wanted and much more than they had ever expected. They lived in London now, where Tom had moved up quickly at the Westminster Gazette and Sybil worked at a small women’s hospital, having finished her first year of training at the Royal College of Nursing.

Their flat was small but it was theirs, paid for with their own money. It was sparsely furnished, mostly from the Downton attics and with only the very basic necessities. Their one luxury was the big double bed which took up almost every inch of the tiny bedroom; everything else, after all, was non-essential.

Things were not perfect, of course. Sybil was a terrible cook and Tom wasn’t very good at pretending that he loved burned food. They argued about the things all couples argue about. Sybil’s pay was miniscule and Tom’s hours were erratic, and at the end of the day both were often exhausted. But they were exhausted _together_ , which was all that mattered.

Now Tom shifted his position on the dock to look into his wife’s face, marveling again at the beauty he found there. He still had trouble sometimes believing that this exquisite woman was his, that she had chosen him when she had so many other choices. The world was truly an amazing place.

His hand found its way beneath her shift, caressing the small bump that cradled their unborn child. Yes…truly amazing.

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” he murmured.

“Well, since I had to chase you down and explain it to you, I think I do,” laughed Sybil, her husky voice tender.

At her words, Tom suddenly went still. His eyes narrowed as they studied her face carefully, then focused on the bushes behind them.

“What is it, love?” Sybil asked softly.

“Mmmm…you don’t have any snakes around here, do you?”

Subil had learned not to be too terribly surprised by some of the more fanciful things her husband said. She put her arms around him and nibbled on his earlobe, causing him to shiver and melt into her.

“No, darling, no snakes. Just the three of us.”

And Tom Branson was content.

 


End file.
